Spleen and Ideal

I

The Living is only a heartbeat, In the race of grey considered, In the bloomless darkest of the night, Arise from this acid that homewrecker, Thou who reigns in the moans of twilight.

II

I plunge my soul in the luminous skies, I spin my cries like the tranquil sound, Rising the perfume with the petals fanned, Opened to the passions yet profound.

III

I adore the frustrated non-existence, The silhouette cut upon the dreams, My Veracity — Your Idleness, Undriven through ancient rivers of scream.

IV

O boundless heights, tempered whispers remote, In thunderies of storms ripened, ablaze, Violate this hush with unheard notes, In magic’s webs cast me into a daze.

• Charles Baudelaire